


Guardian

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ray of light finds Fíli in Mirkwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guardian

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “everybody knows Bofur is very kind and supporting dwarf, but what they do not get is that if someone even thinks of hurting Fili he goes all unforgiving and scary as hell” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25234805#t25234805).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Fíli understands, of course, that he isn’t a model dwarf. He isn’t as big as most of them—he’s thicker than Gandalf, than little Bilbo, but when it comes to real _dwarves_ , he’s trim and fairly small. His hair’s never grown as full as the others, and his beard is stubbornly short. Though he tries to braid the edges to give it that extra punch, it’s still nowhere near as brilliant as his companions’. His one saving grace would be Kíli, who’s just as thin and has only stubble, except that Kíli is by all accounts _beautiful_ , even to a dwarf, and men and elves alike fall for him everywhere. That leaves Fíli at the alone at the bottom, only vaguely self-assured (and even then only because of Bofur’s constant reassurances from his youth) and only classically handsome in all the places where it doesn’t count. So he isn’t particularly surprised when he’s called out on it, even teasingly.

The company loves one another like brothers. They have an impenetrable bond. But Fíli knows more than anyone how fiercely brothers fight, and he can tell from the minute Dwalin’s eyes connect with his across the campfire what’s going to happen. Dwalin always has a stony look to him, but the dreariness of Mirkwood’s intensified all their worse traits. Even the puny fire can’t save them from the perpetual darkness, and Dwalin stabs a muscular arm over it to accuse, “This is _your_ fault!”

Balin mumbles a tired, “Dwalin.” No one else says a word. They’re too miserable, Fíli just the same.

“If it weren’t for your weak arms, we’d have a real fire. You children never pull your weight. We finally send you out for something important, and at least Kíli comes back with a log, but you barely bring us twigs, and now we still can’t see a thing! If you were built like a proper dwarf, this wouldn’t be a problem!”

Kíli, sitting next to Fíli as always, shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t dare to interject. No one bothers to say that their fire would likely do no good anyway, and they’re lucky to have it small and not draw in more monsters. Fíli looks imploring toward the hump of fabric that’s Thorin, but Thorin has long since turned his back on the circle. He’s lying just outside it as though for some early rest, when he’s likely just brooding. Mirkwood is a truly awful place.

And Fíli feels awful for it and shakes his head, muttering, “Sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t _good_ enough.” Fuming, Dwalin kicks over a rock that goes flying into Glóin’s foot. Glóin glares, but Dwalin’s focused just on Fíli, grumbling across the circle, “I don’t even know why we brought a scrawny thing like you. It’s time you toughened up and grew a proper beard to cover that ugly mug of yours, which I’m sick of looking at!”

Fíli makes a noncommittal grunt. He’s vaguely numb to the words, though he is physically sinking back, cowering more and more into the ever-reaching gloom; this whole quest does seem _hopeless_. And now he’s useless to boot, neither strong like Dwalin nor handsome like Kíli, and he shuts down as Dwalin whirs into an angry tirade of insults that chisel him away.

Then someone shouts, “Shut _up_!” so loud that the still-awake dwarves collectively jump. Heads swivel to Bofur, up on his feet, towering over the rest of them and glaring daggers at a bewildered Dwalin. Fíli’s cheeks immediately heat. The familiar warmth of Bofur’s protection bubbles in his chest. He used to be embarrassed when Bofur jumped to his defense or comforted him at home, but it’s been a long time since there was any need for it, and he’s too withered down now for anything but relief. Bofur, normally so kind and caring, is now blazing with a fire that’s long since left the rest of them. “I’m sick of you picking on him! Fíli is not only perfectly strong, he’s _gorgeous_ , and it isn’t fair to tear him up just because you’re jealous of his nice hair!”

Dwalin’s mouth flails, lost for words, and Fíli turns redder— _gorgeous_? That’s a new one. 

Bofur goes on, “He might not be rugged liked you want, but I think he’s absolutely beautiful just as he is. I think his small beard is cute, and he braids it better than you ever did yours! Shame on you, acting like battle scars are the only thing that give any value! Fíli risked his life time and time again to come on this crazy quest, just like the rest of us, and you owe him some _respect_!”

Fíli’s face is on fire, and Dwalin’s is turning faintly purple. The other dwarves are eyeing Bofur, who looks like he might overturn their emptied supper pot over Dwalin’s shiny head at any moment. Finally, Kíli mumbles, “Whoa.” Fíli glances sidewise at him, and Kíli looks quickly away, absolving responsibility. Maybe he feels guilt for not being the one to jump to Fíli’s defense or, more likely, he knew Bofur would interject, because when Fíli really thinks on it, Bofur always does. He’s normally so good-natured, but he’s supportive to a fault, and when it comes to throwing one too many stones in Fíli’s direction, he’s a whole new dwarf.

He huffs loudly, standing with his hands on his hips. After glaring Dwalin into stunned silence, he looks at Fíli with all his usual concern and compassion. Fíli feels vaguely like he should announce that he’s okay, but he doesn’t want to come off weak to the rest of them. 

Then, with another long look at Dwalin’s now-bowed head, Bofur steps over the log behind him and stomps off through the blackened forest floor. 

“Bofur,” Balin calls, too muted to carry, “Don’t go too far off the path!” Bofur takes no notice, disappearing behind the bend of a large tree. 

Hyper-aware that he’s alone again, even in this mass of friends, Fíli pushes to his feet. When they look at him, he explains, “I’ll fetch him back.” And they all nod and mutter like they understand, when they must know that he’s mostly going after Bofur to say _thank you._ Dwalin’s avoiding looking at him, and that gives Fíli the strength to move. 

Bofur isn’t so far after all. Tucked behind two gnarled trunks, Fíli finds him kicking at the dirt, hands in his pockets. The ends of his hat seem to droop with his mood, but everything does that in Mirkwood. Strange though it is, Fíli is feeling marginally better, not totally lost for the first time since stepping into this dreaded place. Bofur looks up at his approach, and Fíli stops only one step away, close enough that they can speak in hushed tones without the others hearing. Fíli, still flushed but sure the darkness will hide it, mutters, “Thanks for saying those things.” He can’t put into words how much it comforts him, but he tries with his tone.

Bofur nods stiffly. He looks a bit bashful, sunken back down to his normal size. He shrugs his shoulders and says, “I meant them.” Then the ferocity surges back at once, and he sniffs, like drawing himself up. He looks sharply at Fíli and says, powerfully sincere, “He’s being an ass, and he was wrong. There’s no shame in being small. And you have a great beard.” His own facial hair ripples with his words, thick mustache bracketing his long lips. Fíli shuffles his feet, surprised, even though he just heard it all. That was for everyone’s benefit. This... is something private. Bofur reaches out a hand to clasp on Fíli’s shoulder, kind and steady. 

It squeezes, and Fíli feels keenly warm. The headiness of the forest isn’t so bad when Bofur tries to smile, even if it’s a pale imitation of his usual jubilance. He’s a dwarf of all colours, and though Fíli struggles to express his gratitude, he can’t seem to find the words. 

He sighs and pushes forward instead, shoving a chaste kiss to Bofur’s cheek. It’s maybe meant affectionately—Fíli isn’t sure—and Bofur’s skin is burning beneath him. 

He pulls back halfway, meaning to repeat a gruff but inadequate ‘thanks’ and pull Bofur back to the campfire, expect that Bofur is standing stiff as a board, looking down with wide eyes. It takes Fíli a minute to decipher the adoration in them. Bofur’s words repeat in his head: _you’re perfectly strong, you’re gorgeous, you’ve nice hair, you’re worthy of respect._ And his beard is cute, great. The same sort of stuff Bofur used to tell him at home when others got after him, that kept him padded with some smattering of confidence, never quite able to be torn down.

He turns his mouth, hesitantly drawing it over Bofur’s closed lips. He could still be wrong.

But he isn’t, and Bofur lunges at him so hard that he’s slammed against the tree. His back’s ground into it while Bofur kisses him, all intensity. Fíli’s eyes go wide, then closed, while Bofur’s tongue tentatively presses against his own, and he presses back, suddenly _ravenous_ with Bofur on the menu. He can taste the stale remnants of dinner and smell the sweat from too many days without running water, but it’s still exciting, scrumptious. Fíli even thinks of professing how much he likes Bofur’s beard, too, how much amusement he derives from Bofur’s silly hats and jokes, and how ardently he likes being protected. He likes being worshipped just as much, and that’s exactly what Bofur’s mouth is doing. 

When Bofur does finally pull back, he splutters a comical, “Sorry,” and wipes at his mouth with the back of his fingerless glove. Fíli almost laughs. 

Instead, he leans forward to rub his round nose against Bofur’s. Bofur makes a startled noise of delight and nuzzles him back, so _sweetly_. Their long hair catches as they snuggle into one another’s faces: a traditional Dwarven exploration of new and wondrous lands. 

They only stop when footsteps crunch through the leaves, and Fíli, light headed with the rush of it all, pulls back just in time to see Dwalin step around the tree. He grumbles a begrudging, “Sorry, Fíli.”

Fíli’s feeling too good to do anything but laugh, which makes Dwalin eye him like he’s gone crazy. No one laughs in Mirkwood. But Fíli feels very lucky—what’s a few insults when you’ve found someone to rub noses with in a hopeless situation?—and he says, “I forgive you.” Dwalin wrinkles his nose but otherwise accepts it graciously, perhaps because Bofur looks ready for round two.

As Dwalin leaves back for the camp, Fíli tugs Bofur along by the hand, who diffidently follows. For the first time since they came to this appalling place, the night isn’t looking so bad.


End file.
